


Doodle#1 "Wings"

by Bofursunboundbraids



Series: Doodles [1]
Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Drunk Sex, Drunkenness, M/M, Oral Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-24
Updated: 2014-09-24
Packaged: 2018-02-18 16:22:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 736
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2354888
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bofursunboundbraids/pseuds/Bofursunboundbraids
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Home is where the heart is" is how the saying goes. And this mountain is full of wonderful heart.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Doodle#1 "Wings"

**Author's Note:**

> I was listening to "Franks Wild Years" by Tom Waits when I wrote this.

It was a wholly different world than what he had been used to...a different life. Cold, deep, and dark; words he never before would have associated happiness with, but he did now...if this was what happiness was. He thought so, though he wouldn't complain too terribly if he woke with the morning sun on his face, every once in a while. He'd had to settle for a hole in the ceiling that allowed a focused beam to shine over the sitting room. And the finest linen pillow cases on his plump, down-filled pillow, much finer than he had had back home. 

No...wait...this was home now. 

His cozy hole under the hill was now a magnificent kingdom under the mountain. But it is _cold_ ; no matter how furiously the fire blazed on the grand, open hearth.

It is always a very merry fire, though.

Friends are sure to find him there; a cup is raised, queries are made of one's day...the work...the weather (if one has been fortunate enough to enjoy a bright, brisk morning and a breakfast of tea and scones on an ornately carved terrace).

He does have friends, like he never did back ho...there. There he had kin...so, SO many relatives...but with none of them had he shared anything like what he had with these lads. They were all of them worth their weight in mithril, he liked to tell them when he was deep in his cups. 

He was an emotional drunk, a sentimental drunk.

He liked few things more than to relive those times, for it was long enough ago that the terror and other unpleasantries they'd experienced were a much diminished, leaning towards humorous, element in the telling. And he liked best of all to remember that _glorious_ moment when he became one of them; an honest-to-goodness member of an honest-to-goodness brotherhood. Such notions were too romantic for most hobbits, who took more store in family ties than those born in the bloody acts of survival. 

He would recall, his voice barely rising above a whisper, that moment when, with a pounding heart and a shaking hand, he was all that stood between the dearest soul on this earth and death incarnate. 

This tale was always told last, after the last inebriate stumbled off to a bed of cloud and down and a hard-earned slumber. It would happen as he stood before one of those unusually large hearths, the fire so hot he felt his soft skin tingle painfully. 

He took steps to back away and into a solid mass of gentle warmth. 

Large hands settled upon his shoulders and he closed his eyes. Lips spoke words of worship on the tender skin of his neck, beard tickling him and he couldn't help but to giggle.

"Never stop laughing."

He felt those words infuse his being more than he heard them. He pushed back into the solid wall of beautiful life behind him. He had begun to come down from his alcohol-fueled high and now all he wanted was to touch and be touched; to feel, hear, taste...  
He was turned around and, with eyes still closed, he let those lips claim his and his body went all but completely boneless, his blood running hot and thick in his veins. With only a low chuckle as a warning, he was swept off his feet and carried in strong, strong arms and laid on the bed like the porcelain man doll to which he was often compared. A bend and shift of the mattress announced the arrival of the body beside him; then a heavy, hairy leg laid upon his. The hair scratched him pleasantly and he sighed happily. 

And that mouth was upon him again; on his neck, shoulder, over his heart. Teeth nipped at his softening belly. A gust of warm breath was the only warning he received before he was enveloped in a gorgeous, wet heat...sucking him tightly, pulling him along purely by passion and answered with unbridled ecstasy. He can make no words, only noises; the language of all lovers who know their other's soul better than they know their own. Over the edge he goes.

And he has wings.

He will never hit the ground again. 

He drifts off, a precious and protected thing, bundled up in peace and love for all the days of his life.

**Author's Note:**

> One of the exercises I've used to help with my writing has been to do what Julia Cameron mentions in her book "The Artist's Way"; Morning Pages. The idea is every morning, the first thing you do is handwrite three pages of whatever comes to mind...pure stream of consciousness sort of thing. She suggests not even reading it later...just write to warm up/loosen the brain. 
> 
> I, being me, never could just "blah blah blah" and it always became more focused after the first couple of sentences. Anyway, I've decided to resume this habit (hopefully it will become that) and, if what the three pages yield is a half-way decent something, I will post it. Cuz...why not? And since these are like the literary equivalent of doodles, that's what I'm calling it. And I'll include the name of the album was listening to at the time, since music in absolutely instrumental for me in the writing process. Ha...instrumental...get it???


End file.
